It took a good amount of hen cuddling before Audrey felt able to put Gertrude down and follow Zelda into the kitchen. She needed to remember who she was, reacquaint herself with the woman she had been before this dreadful war—a dynamic, spontaneous, and creative person who loved to cook.
Not a chaotic murderer.
The kettle on, the pair of women sat at the kitchen table.
“Now, let’s see what you can make for your main course,” Zelda said, pulling Audrey’s notebook and pen over from the dresser.
“You can’t help me! You’re my competitor!” Audrey whisked the notebook away from her.
“I’ve already made my dish, if you must know. So you have nothing to lose.” Zelda pushed the pen across the table to her. “And I’d rather you win than the others. At least you’d stop working yourself into the ground.”
Audrey eyed her, then opened the notebook and made a few notes. “I have a lot of vegetables, but that’s about all.”
“What about mock chicken? Replace Gertrude with vegetables? Mock recipes are all the rage. You could use beans to bulk it out, add more protein.”
“That might be a good idea,” Audrey said cautiously. “My runner beans are doing ever so well. We could mold them into a roast chicken shape with mashed potatoes and other vegetables. Add some herbs and a little nutmeg to make it spicy and warming.”
“The Ministry of Food will love that!”
“Yes, and we may have some eggs left as well—perhaps the hens have gratefully laid a few extra to make sure we don’t change our minds about poor Gertrude.” She laughed a little, suddenly feeling lighter. Her hand reached over to Zelda’s. “Thank you for stopping me. Sometimes you need a friend to remind you who you are.”
Zelda squeezed her hand. “A friend.” She smiled. “I’ve never had one of those before.”
Nell
The golden afternoon sunshine threaded its way between the tree branches, speckling the clearing in front of the old hut with a mosaic of moving light, a dance in the wind.
A fire flickered exactly where it had been before, during her afternoon with Paolo.
But now she sat alone, trying to re-create that spectacular dish for Round Two, tonight.
After Nell had cleaned up after lunch in the hall, Lady Gwendoline had banished her from the kitchen so that she could use the room and equipment to make her own entry.
“She never even asked me where I was going to do my cooking,” Nell mumbled into the flames. “I don’t think it even crossed her mind.”
It had, however, given Nell a few hours of freedom: enough time to run to the farm to find out what had happened to Paolo after he was caught with her. She had crept into the farmyard, hearing the Italian voices of the other POWs.
Quickly, she hid behind a corner, peering around to see who it was, praying that Barlow wasn’t there. She didn’t fancy coming face-to-face with him. He hadn’t recognized her in the old shooting hut with Paolo, and she didn’t wish to jolt his memory now.
Relief flooded through her as she saw a small group of Italian POWs talking and smoking.
Eagerly looking around them for Paolo, she felt the blood drain out of her face. She looked again, harder.
Where is he?
She waited for them to move closer to her, and then she stepped out.
One of his friends recognized her and stepped forward, his hands spread open to display an emptiness, futility.
“Two guards came,” he said in broken English. “They take him away.”
She let out a gasp. “Where?”
“A big farm near Canterbury. They have German POWs there. He says he will pretend not to speak English or German. Maybe they will send him back here if he can’t understand.”
The harsh shouts of Barlow came from inside the barn.
“I have to go,” Nell whispered, escaping out of the farmyard with a hasty goodbye.
Crushed, she ran as fast as she could go, down into the wood, tears streaming from her eyes. Carefully, she lit a fire beside the hut and found the pot and utensils she’d already washed and prepared.
“I’ll cook this for you, Paolo,” she murmured into the young flame. “I’ll win it for both of us.”
Her basket contained all the ingredients she needed for her main course, and one by one she brought them out. Focused like she had never been before, she began, painstakingly, to cook Paolo’s meal—their meal.
The one ingredient she couldn’t get was chicken, so she’d decided to use rabbit. With the war, some of the locals had begun breeding rabbits for the extra meat, and it only took a few inquiries at the shop and a little of the housekeeping money before she had a large one. The taste and texture were similar to chicken. It would take on the flavors perfectly.
Reliving every moment of those magical hours with Paolo, she placed the pot above the fire, searing the rabbit portions and bacon, frying the onions, crushing in the plump tomatoes. Then, she made a few changes, to make it more of a wartime dish, using less meat and more hearty vegetables, some broad beans and garlic courtesy of Audrey, roughly chopped wild mushrooms from the wood, and a fresh bulb of fennel, seared and tasty.
Finally, she put her own mark on the dish, using her own dense stock that she’d made at the hall and a flourish of fresh herbs: thyme, marjoram, a bay leaf, and the tiniest pinch of tarragon to set off the heartiness.
Yet all the while, she thought of him.
Already the warming smell of cooked rabbit and bacon wafted liberally through the trees, bringing on a fresh bout of memories, which only served to emphasize her sense of loneliness.
With Mrs. Quince in hospital and now Paolo sent away, her life felt empty.
But it wasn’t like it had been before she met him. It was far, far worse. Now she knew what it was like to be courted, to hold someone, to feel his skin beneath her hands, the warm headiness when her lips met his.
Kneeling in front of the big pot, a tear dazzled briefly in the golden late-afternoon sun, dripping silver-clear into her Italian cacciatore. Slowly, sadly, she sang. “Are you going to Scarborough Fair…” Her voice echoing through the stillness, a lonely chant through the abyss.
When the cacciatore was cooked, she cleared the cooking utensils, stamped out the fire, and left the old hut, taking the pot with her. Back at the hall, she brought it down into the kitchen to finalize her preparations for the contest.
Had she forgotten that Lady Gwendoline was there? Or had she expected her to be finished, back upstairs getting ready for the contest?
Blundering into the room, she stopped abruptly.
There, in front of the pantry door, silhouetted by the light behind, was Lady Gwendoline, her arms wrapped around a man who most definitely was not her husband.
But Lady Gwendoline was kissing him for all she was worth.
Until she spotted Nell.
Pulling away quickly, she turned to her furiously.
“One word about this and you’ll be out of a job with no reference,” she snapped, smoothing down her disheveled dress.
Tremors began in Nell’s legs and arms, and she hastily put her heavy pot down. “I w-won’t tell a soul,” she stammered. “I promise.”
“You’d better not.” Lady Gwendoline took a step toward her, and Nell realized with a gasp that Lady Gwendoline was scared, too.
Nell knew that Sir Strickland could be violent. She’d heard the shouting, his vicious threats, her pleading whimpers. Sometimes she’d come into an empty room to find broken crockery, upturned chairs.
“It’s all right,” Nell said, trying to stay calm. “Y-you can trust me. I’m not on Sir Strickland’s side.”
Lady Gwendoline’s face altered, transforming from rage to the fear inside. “You can’t tell him!”
Nell shook her head. “Me and Mrs. Quince, we don’t think it’s right how
he treats you.”
A blush came over Lady Gwendoline’s face. She glanced back at her handsome chef, embarrassed, and then she pulled herself together, hissing at Nell, “You’d better not say a word. I can make your life a misery, too.”
It’s already a misery, Nell thought to herself, but she said quietly, “You can trust me.”
With a menacing sneer, Lady Gwendoline turned and stalked out of the kitchen. The good-looking chef scooped up a platter that was lying in readiness on the table and followed her out.
Had he been helping Lady Gwendoline with the contest?
Nell sank into a chair.
How could things get any worse? she thought bitterly.
And then, just like that, they did.
There was a movement in the corner of the room. It made her turn.
In the shadows, concealed by the dresser, stood the old butler, Brackett, watching.
He turned to look at Nell, then put his finger to his lips.
“Shh.”
Zelda
Zelda Dupont was not given to worry, but she found herself with a growing problem: Her pregnancy was becoming more visible. Even though she planned to have the baby adopted, and even though there was nothing in the rules per se, she couldn’t imagine the BBC being thrilled should their contest winner prove to be pregnant.
Therefore, when she dressed for the second round of the cooking contest, she chose a simple summer frock borrowed from Audrey. It consisted of long, flowing panels that rendered one shapeless. Over the top, she wore a lightweight jacket, left open to conceal the bump from the side, and a long, rayon scarf jauntily covered any remaining indication of her condition.
No one needed to know anything about it.
As usual, she made sure she was last to arrive, pushing her way through the vestibule into the hall, ignoring the array of government propaganda posters on the noticeboard—Zelda couldn’t care less about Dr. Carrot or Potato Pete, and she was already Digging for Victory at Audrey’s house whether she liked it or not, thank you very much.
As she carried the silver-domed platter in front of the bump to the stage, she couldn’t help feeling a buzz of anticipation, walking regally up the steps to take her place at the end beside Lady Gwendoline.
Ambrose Hart put on his notorious smile. This time the hall was more packed, half of Middleton coming after hearing the first round on the BBC. A larger team of journalists and photographers sat at the front, notepads and cameras at the ready.
“Welcome, one and all, to the second round of our cooking contest,” Ambrose began after the lead technician counted him in. “Perhaps the most difficult round, our main courses have been under threat since the very beginning of the war, especially when it comes to meat. Half of our land has been taken away from herds and given over to grain,” he added with an audible sigh of loss.
“Let’s have a look at what the contestants have for us today.” Ambrose turned to the competitors. “First, we have Mrs. Audrey Landon, winner of our last round. What have you cooked for us today?”
Audrey had shadows under her eyes. If anyone needed a long bath and a good night’s sleep, it was her. As she lifted off the silver dome, the audience craned their necks, half standing to get a better look.
Zelda let out an involuntary gasp. There on Audrey’s platter was a roast chicken.
“Gertrude?” she murmured, aghast.
“Today I have mock roast chicken.” Audrey glanced majestically at Zelda, who heaved a sigh of relief. “Instead of killing my own dear hen, I decided to create a mock recipe, like others have done with mock duck and mock goose.”
On closer inspection, Zelda could see that it was indeed something molded into the shape of a roast chicken, not an actual chicken. The golden skin wasn’t smooth, but more of a breadcrumb crust browned crisp and golden in the oven.
“Oh, this looks delightful,” Ambrose said, his eyes widening with craving. “How did you make it?”
“I created a chicken shape with a mixture of beans, lentils, chopped vegetables, and a grated apple, and then I filled it with a sage and leek stuffing, leeks being easier to find than onions.” Audrey carved a portion for Ambrose to try. “I coated it with breadcrumbs and laid a few rashers of bacon over the top to add that meaty flavor, and then popped it into a hot oven to crisp up the outside.”
“Ah, yes, bacon.” He tucked his fork in. “How delicious, Audrey. Not really like roast chicken, but a lovely dish in its own right.”
He moved on to the next contestant.
“Ah, now we have Miss Nell Brown, who appears to be on her own today.”
The little kitchen maid was frozen with terror, her eyeballs darting from Ambrose to the audience like a petrified deer. Ambrose waited for a moment for something from her, and eventually Lady Gwendoline decided to explain, with her lofty, lady-of-the-manor smile.
“Mrs. Quince had a fall and has had to go to hospital for a short time. Nell here has decided bravely”—the word was said with emphasis since the girl was clearly dumbfounded with shyness—“to press on without her mentor. What do you have for us today, Nell?” She addressed the poor girl in a proprietary way, as if to remind everyone that she was her maid.
Zelda wondered what had happened to make her civil to the poor girl for once.
Nell, urged on by Audrey’s gentle hand behind her elbow, swallowed hard and began quietly, “It’s a rabbit c-cacciatore, which is a type of stew or casserole from Italy.”
The audience remained unmoved. None of them had even heard of cacciatore.
As Nell clumsily slipped off the silver dome, the scent of the rich, ripe tomatoes bathed in the freshest of herbs came across the stage. It was a rich, warming concoction, making one feel sensual and alive.
“Now, where has she got that one from?” Zelda murmured.
Nell spooned some onto a plate, the meat slipping effortlessly off the bone, piled onto mounds of partially dissolved onions, fennel, mushrooms, and fresh herbs, all surrounded by chunks of the juiciest, ripest cooked tomatoes.
With an animal passion, Ambrose dove into the stew, taking a massive forkful of rabbit piled high with the thick tomatoey sauce, ladling it hungrily into his waiting mouth. The look on his face said it all as his eyes rolled backward, his jaw slowly working up and down, while his mouth moved in an almost rapturous rhythm. His eyes then closing, a deep furrow of true awe came across his brow, as if this was not just a mere dish: This was an emotional experience.
When he had truly taken everything he possibly could out of that one mouthful, he swallowed, took a few deep breaths as if he’d run a race or made frantic love beneath the stars, and then looked over at Nell, a new admiration in his eyes.
“You cooked this yourself?”
“Y-yes,” said the little voice.
“Where did you get the recipe?”
“One of the Italian POWs gave me the idea, but I enhanced it, made it my own, and added a few cuts to suit the war, exchanging chicken for rabbit and using heartier vegetables, like broad beans, wild mushrooms, and fennel.”
That’s probably not the only thing he showed her how to do! Zelda thought with a smile.
“But you cooked this one, on your own without Mrs. Quince?” Ambrose was evidently sizing her up for a job as his cook.
“I-I was always meant to be the one cooking the dishes for the contest, with Mrs. Quince’s supervision. But now she’s in hospital so she couldn’t help me anyway.” A sob escaped the girl, and she whisked a hand to her mouth to swallow it back, pull herself together.
Zelda frowned. Surely such a setback should be destroying the girl’s chance of winning the contest, and yet her emotions seemed to be enhancing her cooking—was she somehow transposing her turmoil into the cacciatore?
Reluctantly peeling himself away from the cacciatore, Ambrose turned to the next contestant, L
ady Gwendoline.
As she stood before her silver dome, Lady Gwendoline pulled herself together. But her usual smug smile wavered, and her eyes shifted anxiously across the audience. Putting on her best voice, she adopted her usual haughtiness. “Today I wanted to demonstrate my dexterity with this lovely steak and mushroom pie.”
Beneath the dome was a deep pie dish with a beautiful pastry top, traces of deep brown gravy oozing lusciously out. Lady Gwendoline cut a slice of the pie and scooped it onto a plate, Ambrose at the ready to taste it.
A murmur went through the audience. Where did she get steak?
As Ambrose took the plate, an unfamiliar scent made its way to Zelda’s nostrils. It smelled like a heavy, gamey meat, stronger than horsemeat or venison. Had Lady Gwendoline sought access to zoo animals? Some of the zoos had been forced to close, and the gruesome reality was that some of the meat had made its way onto the black market. Zelda grimaced with horror.
Ambrose seemed to have missed the smell, and he tucked in eagerly. “Delicious! What a magnificent gravy! I have to ask, though, how did you get hold of so much steak?”
A smug smile covered Lady Gwendoline’s face, and she suddenly seemed more her usual self as she declared, “It’s whale meat. I disguised it with a heavy gravy using a good beef stock and an arrangement of the right herbs and spices. I topped it with a potato pastry that uses less fat, too.”
Oohs came from the audience, a ripple of applause.
Blast! Zelda thought. It was a cunning move. The Ministry of Food had been trying to create recipes to make whale meat palatable for months now. Trust Lady Gwendoline to come up with something clever.
Yet, wasn’t it rather odd for her, too? Lady Gwendoline wasn’t a chef, after all, nor was she a cook with any amount of ingenuity.
Ambrose was letting the meaty sauce linger in his mouth. “How did you make the beef stock? What spices did you add?”
Lady Gwendoline suddenly looked a little nervous. “It’s a secret recipe of mine.”
Ambrose gave a little cough. “But you’ll need to share it with us. That’s the nature of the contest, of The Kitchen Front broadcast.”
The Kitchen Front Page 25